Samuel Owens's world had been reduced to a single point of failure: a five-ton titanium vault door, the center of which now glowed a dull, malevolent cherry-red. The air in the Presidential Emergency Operations Center was thick with the smell of superheated metal and ozone. Any moment now, it would give way.
This room was supposed to be a refuge. It was supposed to be a command center in a crisis, but with all communication cut by the enemy, it had become a prison. Maybe even a tomb.
Timing. Timing was everything. Would the door fail before reinforcements arrived? There had to be reinforcements. It was impossible that all had fallen.
It couldn't. It just couldn't be. America was the greatest country on Earth. It could not fail like this.
They should have taken Aperture's prognostications more seriously.
After all, their precognitives hadn't just been right about the hurricanes and the floods. Aperture had predicted this, too.
But it had just seemed so... unbelievable.
Who would dare attack Washington D.C.? Who would dare strike at them?
The Russians? No. Not with Ozerov taking half their population on a mad crusade to Antarctica and then losing all communication.
China? Beijing was supposed to be under attack as well, according to the same prediction.
It was all so unbelievable. And now they were paying the price for their complacency.
Unable to look at the glowing door any longer, Owens scanned the room again.
In the corner, Terry Evans was tending to a prone Elliot Morgan. Seeing them there was a bitter reminder of why his team had been assigned to the White House in the first place. After Aperture had issued its vague, high-level warning, the President's office had requested a "visible protective detail." In truth, it was a PR opportunity—a way for the administration to show support for the team after the Valorum affair had tainted everyone associated with the ultra-rich.
The thought of Valorum brought a fresh wave of disgust, sharp and acidic. It wasn't the existence of the "murder club" itself that was most galling. That, he could almost swallow; the world had always had its monstrously wealthy serial killers.
No, it was the way a segment of the public and the media had rushed to defend them that truly raised his bile. All the twisted excuses he'd been forced to listen to for the past month—the wild conspiracy theories, the smarmy political deflections, and the truly vomit-inducing pop-psychology diagnoses of "affluenza."
Swallowing dryly, Owens forced his focus away from the door and back to the room. He looked over at Morgan. His initial assessment had been wrong. The young man was not getting better.
When the city-wide attacks began, Morgan had thrown his full technopathic power into boosting the White House's communication grid. When the enemy severed that grid, the psychic backlash had struck him like a physical blow. He had bled from his nose, his ears, and even the corners of his eyes, before collapsing completely unconscious.
That was why Evans, the healer, was here in the bunker with her patient. The rest of his team—Thompson, Carter and Steele—were doing what heroes were supposed to do. They were outside, trying to get civilians to safety, with a special focus on the school tour group that had been caught in the chaos.
Owens clung to the grim, rational hope that they had succeeded.
It was logical, after all. Whoever was attacking the White House would be focused on the President. They wouldn't have time to waste on civilians.
Especially not schoolchildren.
What kind of monster would focus on that?
Owens's gaze snapped back to the door.
Was the cherry-red spot growing brighter, hotter? Or was it just his imagination? He couldn't tell.
It had to be getting worse.
Unless… unless reinforcements had arrived and stopped the assault.
But with the room completely soundproof and all communications dead, there was no way to know. They were blind, deaf, and utterly alone, waiting.
"It… stopped."
Owens turned his gaze to the source of the whisper. It was one of the younger Secret Service agents—the one with the small, golden pin on his lapel depicting the Greek letter Psi (Ψ), marking him as a psycho-sensitive operative.
After the government had gone through the reports of how Dr. Johnson had personally dealt with the captains of invading Nazi Spaceships—and even half a decade later, Owens still felt a jolt of incredulity at those words—there had been a concerted effort to recruit psychics into the Secret Service. The goal was to protect the President from threats that couldn't be stopped by a bullet, like remote assassination.
This young man was the last one remaining on the President's current detail.
"The humming," the psychic agent continued, his eyes wide and fixed on the glowing door. "That damned humming. It's gone."
When the door had first begun to heat, it was accompanied by a low humming vibration, barely noticeable at the edge of hearing. Now that the young agent had drawn his attention to it, Owens realized with a jolt that it was gone.
How did I miss that?
There was too much on his mind. Too much chaos.
He needed to focus. He couldn't afford to miss a detail like that. Not now. Not in a situation this perilous.
But still... a flicker of hope asserted itself.
"Could this mean the reinforcements have arrived?"
Only when he saw the President and the other agents turn to look at him did Owens realize he had spoken the last part aloud. He winced internally but kept his face a mask of calm composure.
"We can hope so, Sam," President Gore replied.
His tone was perfectly measured, a calm island in a sea of tension. But Owens had been trained to see through the performance. He noticed the slight twitch at the corner of the President's eye, the faint sheen of sweat on his upper lip. The man was a rock, but even rocks felt the pressure.
"But we cannot know for sure," Gore continued, his gaze fixed on the glowing vault door. "And in a situation like this, acting on unconfirmed hope would be the height of folly. We sit tight. We wait for contact."
There was one thing left unsaid: with all electronics dead, there was only one way in or out—the door had to be breached. The only other option was betrayal from within, and that seemed unlikely.
"I could look," the young psychic agent offered, his voice hesitant. He meant using ESP—Extra-Sensory Perception—to see what lay beyond the door.
Owens didn't blame him for the reluctance. In fact, he admired the young man's bravery, considering what had happened to the other two psychic agents on the detail.
When the attacks began, before they'd even reached the bunker, the first agent had attempted remote viewing to assess the enemy's numbers. His eyes had suddenly hemorrhaged, bright arterial blood streaming from his sockets—a sight Owens had never expected outside a horror film.
The second agent had fallen just after they'd sealed the door and lost contact with the outside world. She had tried to use telepathy to call for help. Instead, she had spontaneously combusted, her psychic power turning inward. The scorched, blackened stain on the floor where she had stood was still visible.
But before anyone could answer—before Owens could weigh the terrible calculus, or the President could give a command—a new sound cut through the bunker.
It began as a single, pure note, like a struck tuning fork, seeming to emanate from the vault door itself. But the note warped almost immediately, climbing in pitch until it became a torturous, metallic screech.
Owens was forced to drop his pistol, clapping both hands over his ears. It didn't help. The sound wasn't just in the air; it was a physical vibration that rattled his teeth and resonated deep in his bones. Just as he thought he could take no more, the door shattered.
It did not buckle or bend. It exploded inward in a shower of white-hot shrapnel. A jagged piece of titanium clipped Owens's arm, the searing pain of the burn layered atop the sound still screaming in his skull.
Owens ignored the searing pain in his arm.
Falling back on years of training, he scooped up the pistol he had dropped. His hand trembled, but being armed was better than being helpless. Only then did he dare look at the President.
It was better than he'd hoped. Parts of the conference table were on fire, but the heavy block of mahogany in front of President Gore remained untouched; no shrapnel had come anywhere near him.
Owens scanned the room and saw why.
The young psycho-sensitive lay crumpled on the floor, only half-conscious, blood pouring from his nose. Owens had worked with enough gifted operatives to recognize the aftermath of psychic over-exertion: the kid must have burned out the last of his strength projecting a telekinetic shield around the President.
His gaze flicked to his own team. No shrapnel near them either—but Terry Evans had slumped over Elliot Morgan, joining him in unconsciousness. Whether it was the psychic shock of the breach or the Vril-ya's entry, both healers were down.
The other Secret Service agents had not been so lucky.
Bodies were scattered amid the smoke and splintered wood. From a quick glance he couldn't tell the merely incapacitated from the dead, but the survivors were still on their feet, weapons up, eyes fixed on the ragged hole where the vault door had been.
A figure stepped through the broken door.
It made no sense.
It wasn't the Russians. It wasn't the Chinese.
The iconic black turtleneck. The simple jeans. The face with its sharp jawline and wire-rimmed, circular, frameless glasses.
Owens couldn't fail to recognize the second most famous CEO in America.
But what was Steve Jobs doing invading the White House?
And what was that in his hands? Some kind of twisted scepter. It was metallic in color but seemed almost organic in its shape, tipped with what looked like a jagged, three-pronged letter 'V'.
It had to be a weapon. Possibly psionic in nature. But it was like nothing Owens had ever seen before.
But even through his confusion, Owens's training took over. He raised his pistol and fired at the threat. The Secret Service agents followed his lead, and for a moment, the small room was filled with the deafening thunder of gunfire.
But it was for nothing.
A translucent blue shield shimmered into existence just in front of the Jobs-figure—was it really Jobs, or an imposter?—and the bullets ricocheted harmlessly.
No, it was worse than nothing.
"Cease fire! Cease fire!" President Gore commanded, his voice booming with authority. "You're doing more harm than good!"
The agents reluctantly lowered their weapons as Jobs took another casual step into the room, a thin, cruel smile on his lips.
"Please, don't stop on my account," he purred. "I do so enjoy watching you little monkeys kill each other. It's just so much fun."
Owens's hands trembled, and he tightened his grip on the useless gun. He was no longer a young man. Pain radiated up his arm. Owens wanted, for just a moment, to let the pistol slip and collapse beside the dead—but willpower kept him upright. Doubt clawed at his resolve. What could he do? What was the point of even struggling? His weapons were useless.
"What are your demands?" President Gore asked, his voice almost unnervingly calm.
Owens drew strength from that.
"Demands?" Jobs replied, with the same casual tone one might use to order a cup of coffee. "Simple, really. I want you, and all of your loathsome kind, down to the last screaming infant, to die."
He offered a thin, placid smile. "But for now, I would be satisfied with killing you and everyone else in this room. If you amuse me by begging prettily enough, I might even make it painless."
"I will not beg," President Gore declared, his voice steady and defiant. "Do your worst. I will not sacrifice the dignity of this office for my personal comfort."
"If only I had time for my 'worst.' But I am so very short on it," Jobs replied with a dismissive shrug. He moved with the speed of a striking snake, pointing his scepter-like weapon at one of the Secret Service agents.
A bolt of black fire erupted from the Vril-staff. The agent and his weapon burst into a pile of fine ash in an instant.
Jobs turned his gaze back to the President. "But 'dignity of the office'? Now that... is a funny joke."
"Leave them alone," Gore interjected, stepping forward slightly. "You came for me!"
"That doesn't mean I intend to leave any of you alive," Jobs continued, his gaze shifting to Owens. "But you can beg to be killed first, if you like."
Owens braced himself. If he was going to die, he would do so with dignity.
Jobs seemed to consider Owens for a moment, then turned with impossible speed. With another bolt of black fire, he disintegrated an agent who had been trying to stealthily approach for melee combat.
"Assuming, of course, that wouldn't be against the dignity of the office," Jobs continued, his eyes roving among the remaining humans, looking for his next target.
"Then again," he mused, a thin smile playing on his lips, "if there is any dignity left in that office, I would know."
"After all, I've held it three times."
As he spoke, the skin on his face began to wither and peel away, like old parchment curling in a fire. In its place, a new face formed—long, narrow, and gaunt, with a high forehead and a mane of wiry white hair. It was a face defined by a wide, thin-lipped mouth set in a resolute line, and cold, piercing blue eyes that held an ancient authority.
It was a face Owens recognized with a jolt of absolute horror from the presidential portraits. The face of Andrew Jackson.
"My work as Jackson was crude, I'll admit," the creature said, its voice now holding a different, older, harsher cadence. "Simple butchery for the sake of land."
As it prepared to speak again, the face seemed to lose cohesion. The severe features of Jackson blurred for an instant into the fuller, more serious visage of James K. Polk.
"My time as Polk," it continued, the voice shifting subtly, "was an amusingly simple exercise in provoking a border war over nothing."
The face shifted a final time, becoming younger, handsomer, but etched with a deep, troubled sorrow. Franklin Pierce. The creature smiled, a deeply melancholic expression on Pierce's face.
"But my work as Pierce was true art. To find that single, festering hypocrisy at the heart of a nation and to twist the knife until it agrees to tear itself apart... a masterpiece."
And then, the historical masks fell away, the features rapidly reforming back into the familiar, minimalist face of Steve Jobs.
"After that, I found the presidency too limiting," he said, his voice returning to its modern, mocking tone. "There was more power, more freedom for true chaos, in a boardroom than in a White House. At least, until Roosevelt and his tedious 'New Deal' began interfering. Reagan was supposed to fix that, but the fool managed to lose his second election. And it's been all downhill from there."
The Jobs-figure gestured with the strange sceptre. "Now... where were we?"
As Owens watched the horrifying performance, one single, sickening thought cut through his terror: That mad revolutionary in Russia... Ozerov... he was right.
But there was no time to process the full, world-breaking implications of that thought.
Because Jobs was moving. Slowly, almost theatrically, he began to level the tip of his deadly scepter at the President of the United States.
Owens raised his gun.
He knew it wouldn't do much.
At best, it would be a distraction.
At best.
But even if it was an almost certainly futile gesture...
He could not just stand and watch.
And then, from the ruined doorway, something came.
It moved so fast that it was little more than a blur—a streak of motion that slammed into the back of the shield protecting Jobs.
Owens blinked, his mind struggling to process the sight. It was a human figure. But it was ruined.
The white coat was reduced to rags, torn and battered. One side of the man's torso was shredded open, stained with soot and blood, and through the torn fabric Owens could see the curve of exposed ribs. Not like a visible line under the skin, but as if the flesh had been flayed away, leaving the white bone starkly visible.
His face was a ruin as well, a mangled hamburger of flesh with one eye swollen completely shut.
And yet…
And yet…
And yet, despite the horrifying wounds, the man did not stop. He did not falter for a single moment, relentlessly slashing his blade against the shield that protected Jobs.
For the first time, the Jobs-figure lost its calm composure. It spun around to face the newcomer, its voice a furious, incredulous hiss.
"You wretched, rabid monkey! How are you still alive?!" it shrieked. "I buried you under a ton of concrete! I set the wreckage on fire! I spent more Vril on you than on that damned door! How dare you survive that!"
And while Jobs raged, the figure never stopped. It relentlessly rained blows from its blade against the shimmering shield, a silent, furious storm of attacks.
A futile gesture, was Owens's first thought. A storm against an unbreakable wall.
Or was it truly futile? Because Jobs wasn't ignoring the blade, the way he had completely ignored their bullets. He was focused on it. Bracing against it. The shield was holding, but its bearer was paying attention.
And the figure did not appear to tire. In fact, its wounds, instead of getting worse, seemed to be getting… better?
It was impossible. Owens had seen much in his career, but nothing like this. He had seen psychic healing—Terry Evans was considered one of the best in the world. But this was something else entirely. This was a churning, unnatural regeneration.
He watched in disbelief as bone burrowed back under growing flesh. The naked muscle was covered by a new, pale layer of skin. And the face—it was smoothing out, from an unrecognizable ruin into something familiar.
With a jolt of ice-cold shock, Owens recognized him.
Lukas Morgenstern—one of Aperture's First Class.
Owens had no idea the young man could fight at all, much less like this. The First Class was an Aperture-sponsored team, a private asset. They weren't law enforcement.
They were supposed to be a disaster relief unit. Lukas was supposed to be a healer.
Not this... this mad, regenerative creature.
With a visible effort, the Jobs-figure—and Owens had no better name for the creature—calmed himself, a cruel, triumphant drawl returning to his voice.
"But I know your weakness, beast," Jobs said, speaking not to anyone in the room, but to the berserker in the doorway. "The same weakness I exploited before. You feel the need to protect. These other loathsome humans. You just can't help yourself, you rabid monkey."
And with that, Jobs turned once more toward the President. Owens followed his gaze, dread settling like ice in his stomach.
But there was no one behind the desk.
As Owens frantically scanned the room, he realized that all the living agents, both conscious and unconscious, were gone. Even Evans and Morgan were missing.
Only Owens remained. And any moment now, Jobs's full attention would focus on him.
Owens didn't have time to ponder the mystery of their disappearance, because there was one thing he knew with absolute certainty.
He would not be a liability. He would not be a hostage.
If Morgenstern was to have any chance of winning, there could be no distractions.
Jobs was beyond the reach of his simple pistol. But there was another target in the room that would remove the last possible hostage from the equation.
Owens raised the gun to his own temple.
His hand was suddenly grabbed by an unseen force, stopping the motion, as a voice whispered directly into his ear.
"Brace yourself."
There was a soft whooshing sound, almost like a high-tech airgun firing.
A twisted, shimmering distortion appeared in the air, rushing past them toward the Jobs-figure. And in that instant, the world changed.
Everything changed. Sounds, smells, but especially sight.
Everything was muted, distorted, as if he were looking at the world from underwater.
But through the strange haze, he could suddenly see the missing men. Well, some of them. They were in a line, moving quickly and silently toward the ruined doorway—an evacuation in progress. He saw President Gore at the very end of the line, ensuring he was the last one out. Owens admired the nobility, even as he cursed the tactical impracticality.
"Don't speak," the whisper continued, close to his ear. "The Vril-ya can't see us in here, but it can still hear us."
Owens turned his head, and the unseen presence was no longer unseen. He was greeted by the all-American, handsome face of Steve Harrington.
By now, Owens had become numb to surprises. He didn't even have the energy to question why the heir to the Harrington fortune was an active field operative. He had always assumed Steve's position in Aperture Security was a sinecure—a well-paid, do-nothing job created as a favor to his great-uncle Reggie.
It was a common enough practice. A way to have a line of influence, a presence on the board of a key strategic partner. Owens had seen dozens of such arrangements in Washington. But it seemed he had been wrong. The boy wasn't just a name on a letterhead; he was a soldier.
Looking into the calm, brown eyes of his young rescuer, Owens realized that Harrington was more than just a soldier. He was a specialist. A top-tier operative. The kind of asset that belonged to a government agency, not a private corporation.
But Owens was numb with exhaustion and pain. Right now, any help was welcome.
Although... a trace of a new thought was already beginning to work its way through his mind.
"Go with the others," Harrington said, his voice a sharp, quiet command. "You're a liability here, sir. And this stealth effect won't last long after I apply it. You all need to be gone by then."
A liability.
Owens's jaw tightened. It was true. His own agents had failed to defend the President. But that was because they had been sent in blind, with no actionable intelligence and no weapons capable of harming the enemy.
Owens glanced at the strange device in Harrington's hands. It looked more like a piece of modern art than a gun, but it was brutally effective.
And Aperture, clearly, had been sitting on both the intelligence about this threat and the technology to fight it. And they had shared neither.
But there was no time for those thoughts now. They had no choice but to accept the help and worry about the price later.